


In quest of the light.

by skinnylittlered



Series: Hiddlesfacts. [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and his posse take a walk in search for one of the great wonders of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In quest of the light.

It is the day, Tom declares to the room one day a couple of hours before his pre-filming costume fitting, that he will at last uncover the mystery that, for a little over three decades, has webbed his illustriously artistic intellect with numerous questions, some borderline existential, keeping him awake when the sun no longer shone above his head – which, considering his native residency, is pretty much all day every day and then quite a bit into the night, for when Tom Hiddleston concludes his energy has ceased to suffice for the elementary task of keeping him alert, he topples over, regardless of wherever he may find himself, and falls into possibly the soundest slumber to ever grace mankind other than death – and that being the elusive red traffic light. It is precisely for this reason that the cheerful quartet that the two of us, Luke, and his sister Emma, assemble, has taken, instead of either one of our cars, the road by foot on a clear morning of spring, bright enough to further entice our appetite for outdoorsy recreational activities, but refreshingly crisp, so that the only inconvenience the sun presents us with is the slight burn of our customarily british photosensitive corneas, and just as light intolerant skin, both of which easily avoidable with the smart use of SPF.

Tom and I are strolling hand-in-hand along the wide boulevard, window shopping and admiring the architecture, emitting the most ridiculous of appreciation sounds, akin to a couple of sanatorium escapees taking in the world for the first time in longer than humanely acceptable, earning irritated side-eyes from passers-by, which we only notice for lack of any other pastime when not marvelling, starry-eyed and brimming with idiotic wonder, at the inconspicuous buildings lining the sidewalk. I am sure that, if it weren’t for those blasted gadgets they’re so earnestly swiping away at whilst yapping mutedly at each other without so much as raising their eyes to meet one another’s, our company would much more verbally share into the strangers’ disapproval of me and Tom’s obnoxious cries of puerile awe.

It is only when my lover abruptly stops into his tracks, immovably entranced by the display of exquisitely ornate baked goods in the window of some super posh and equally as overpriced pâtisserie, and both Luke and Emma are, at once and with great focus, gawking at him that it even occurs to me that their peculiar conduct might have been, in fact, purposeful. My hunch is only verified by their shared exasperated look engendered by Tom’s solemn verbal articulation of _I want cake_.

“But, Tom, we don’t have time to stop for-“ Luke, begins his hopeful argument but, as the taller of the two offhandedly disregards him and, without further explanation leaves us (well, mostly me, as his friend and his sister seem none too surprised at the unusual behaviour) in the middle of the sidewalk looking dumbfounded at his back as he retreats into the shop, never finishes it, realising it is a battle already lost, that which he is venturing it. Defeated, he motions towards the glass door and we obediently follow his instruction. By the time we’re next to Tom, he’s already deep in thought, carefully weighing his options, the selection of a satisfying treat clearly a task of great importance. Neither the other customers nor the cashiers seem to mind him holding the line, even ten minutes later, when the pastry chef is halfway through presenting him with a comprehensive list of each of the confections’ ingredients and assembly processes. They’re all, dubiously, fawning over him, if anything. Unimpressed by the whole ordeal, Luke and Emma occasionally yawn sitting on cushioned chairs somewhere in the middle of the room while, yet another unbelievable ten minutes later, when the fastidious customer that Tom has turned out to be, has finally elected a winning combo and appears to be gifted his three-digit-priced choice with a smile and the warmest words of gratitude. Needless to say, I am gobsmacked, both at the events unfolding right before my eyes and the uninterrupted impassivity of the half of our foursome that seems to have been confronted with such a situation numerous times before.

Because our unforeseen detour has taken quite a bit of the time we calculated the walk to the studio would comprise, we have mutually agreed that, as little appealing a prospect as it may be due to prolonged periods of waiting (which, in my experience with Tom, have not been longer than an estimative thirty seconds on average) and rubbing against sweaty strangers, our best option comes in the form of public transportation. True to form, the bus arrives half a minute into our arrival and, as it is surprisingly empty, we spend the half hour ride to our destination comfortably seated and looking out the window. I am suddenly reminded of the purpose of our trip when the realisation hits me that the large vehicle has already halted a few times in front of traffic lights and I haven’t given my lover the heads up to finally see the red coloured luminescence.

I spend the rest of the stops watching him get distracted every time I nudge him to look up.

The semaphored crosswalk between the bus stop and the studio, I decide, is my best shot at doing the deed with a hundred per cent rate of success.

Amidst the masses of people coming and going, I hold on to Tom’s elbow, making sure his eyes are securely locked on the almost changing colour, and wait.

Thirty seconds.

One minute.

Two minutes.

The green, although now flickering, remains chromatically unchanged and it is for the first time in my life that I have ever despised something as much as I currently do that very lively hue that, now that I pay closer attention to it, seems to be slowly fading as if exhausted from maintaining its glow in front of the actor, mocking me. Then it just goes out.

There’s no more grim realisation other than that of one’s efforts being nulled by an inanimate object as mundane as a light bulb, and I suppose the truculence of it is clearly spelled out by my defeated expression, because my lover’s arm circles my shoulders, pulling me close sympathetically.

“I love you. No worries, next time.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I FUCKING DID IT.
> 
> I FUCKING UPDATED, YOU GUYS!
> 
> Sorry for the delay, fucking plotbunnies littered my brain for a couple of days there and, trying to finish up one thing, I ended up starting several others which I couldn’t finalise because my arbitrary muse decided to ungraciously present me with the finger in the middle of the phrase. 
> 
> The joys of writing, huh? *chuckles dryly* 
> 
> In any case, HERE’S ONE LITTLE PIECE OF LOVIN’, MY DARLINGS, HOPE IT SATIATES YOUR (pseudo-)LITERARY NEEDS!
> 
> This work has been inspired and based upon the amazing Hiddlesfacts’ tumblr (http://hiddlesfacts.tumblr.com) which is just so damn hilarious on so many levels I can’t even. Hope I did her amazing humour justice.
> 
> Thanks for being patient, thanks for reading, and you stay golden, lovelies! *pushes mugs of hot chocolate your way because AUTUMN’S HERE YAY*
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.: Of course it’s not edited, what do you think, that I’m committed to my work?!
> 
>  
> 
> ...I’ll give it a once-over when my brain stops fuming, I promise *million dollar smile*


End file.
